


When The Clock Strikes.

by somewhat_lost_anna



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-23 10:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20241634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhat_lost_anna/pseuds/somewhat_lost_anna
Summary: Rosie Watson is now a teenager, the clockwork of her mind grinding mercilessly and spitting out questions and inquiries that seem to be unanswerable.Sherlock is tangled up in webs of his own ponderings, getting helplessly stuck inside his mind.John has found himself back bundled in a blanket of vulnerability, which seems to be suffocating him.Difficult times lead to desperate measures, and an incident causes even more trouble for the small family.





	1. Chapter 1

“I hate it when he does this.”

Rosie Watson said as Sherlock, her stepfather, ignored her inquiries once more. 

“When he does what?”

John came back into the living room with two cups of tea. John’s footsteps creaked the old wood beneath them. He noticed Sherlock sitting in his usual seat, deep in thought, and sighed. He handed Rosie her mug and sat on the sofa with her. 

“Ah, you meant that.”

”Yes, I meant that.” 

“He’s just thinking, Rosie. There’s no way to get him out of that mind palace, trust me I’ve tried.”

John shook his head and blew gently on his tea before sipping at it cautiously, his eyebrows raised as he watched Sherlock twitching slightly. Still deep in thought, as suspected. 

“I just feel ignored, you know? Every stupid case. He gets so caught up in all this mess.”

Rosie waved her arms around frustratedly, spilling tea on her dress.  
You’d never expect her to be so clumsy, as her mother was an agent and her father was a war doctor.  
Alas, here Rosie sits, spilling tea on the dress given to her by her Uncle Mycroft on her 15th birthday. She was now nearly 17 years of age.

“Well, you could always ask me your questions.”

Her father, John, stated. He swiped some newspapers away to make room and placed his cup on the coffee table, listening to the familiar clunk of the wood.

“You wouldn’t have an answer for them.”

Rosie groaned, leaning back on the sofa and running her hands through her hair. 

“He’ll snap out of it soon. We can go for lunch while he’s still caught up, how does that sound?”

John suggested, sitting up. He put a soothing hand on Rosie’s shoulder and squeezed. 

She smiled, although the gloomy bags under her eyes made her seem utterly dreary. Her smile nearly mimicked her mother’s. 

John froze for a moment, yet shook himself out of it. Mary was dead. New chapter, new love, new start. 

She had chiseled features, sharp as an eagle. No matter how awake she was, she always looked exhausted. 

“Okay. Chips?”

“Chips.”

Before they left, John gave a rough, yet kind, pat to Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Sweet thoughts, Sherlock.”

He muttered, turning back to Rosie and heading out the door with her. It was going to be a long day. 

Sherlock’s mind was a puzzle. A map. Yet it was unnavigable, unsolvable. A galaxy of thoughts, and strung across every constellation was a thread of steps leading into a large plan for nearly every situation. The rings of Saturn spun with every piece he had ever composed, the grains sand on Mars representing every single feature he had memorized. He was a mystery who’s occupation was solving them. 

Currently, he was caught up with a case about a shooting that took place at a small concert.  
He only took the case because he felt sympathy, a disgusting human emotion, for the girl who had come crying to him hours after the incident. 

“Please, Mr. Holmes, they killed my elder brother. I have to know who they are.”

The dark haired girl spoke with such a trembling voice. Her hands were torn to pieces by her own fingernails, her greenish eyes spilling with tears, although they seemed dehydrated. She obviously hadn’t been taking care of herself. 

Sherlock thought about his brother. The girl couldn’t have been older than Rosie. He imagined himself in the situation, his brother being shot, Mycroft protecting him one last time. 

He took the case, investigated the scene with John, and was pondering. Mentally flipping through newspapers, filing through people he had seen, drunkenly stumbling through London’s streets that wound through his own mind. He found himself rather stuck. 

Meanwhile, physically walking down London’s streets, John and Rosie stopped for fish and chips. 

“I bet if you asked me the question you wanted to ask Sherlock, I’d know the answer.”

John said with a chuckle, fumbling through his pockets for change and paying for their food.

“I bet you if I asked you my question I wouldn’t get a truthful answer.” 

Rosie gave John a cold smile. 

“Eat your damn chips.”

John joked as they walked away from the stand. 

It was a rather cold day, yet Rosie nearly always picked fashion over function.  
Tea-stained antique sundress... Yes, very fashionable, she thought. 

“Aren’t you chilly?”

John asked, nudging Rosie as the wind tousled his hair.

“Not really.”

Rosie shrugged, munching on her chips distractedly. 

“You could’ve borrowed Sherlock’s scarf.”

“It smells like sweat, tea, and blood. Not a very pleasant thing to borrow, dad.”

Rosie held back a laugh and smiled awkwardly. She had been curious about her mother since the very day she had learned that Mary had died. She often asked Sherlock about Mary, but he never bothered to answer. Sometimes she’d wonder if Sherlock was really thinking or just ignoring. 

Rosie’s thoughts weren’t always proper. The gears of her mind would twist and contort into molten rust and bronze. Her mind was not a palace, it was a broken heap of old clockwork, where clicks and buzzes would tick and tock away in her brain until the final hour struck and the triggers would push her past her breaking point.

She shook herself out of her mind. 

“So, if you really think you can handle my question, sit down. I’ll ask you.”

Rosie raised an eyebrow, her hair whipping her face. She almost seemed menacing. 

John sat down. 

“Ask away.”

“How did my mum die?”

John froze. 

“I don’t think you’re old enough to hear that yet-“

“That’s what you said last time I asked. Ten years ago, dad, I asked when I was seven.” 

Rosie snarled, stepping forwards. 

“You really want to know? Fine. She was shot. Mary was shot.”

John was clenching his teeth. He took a few harsh breaths in. 

“By who?”

Rosie pushed farther, her stare becoming ever so curious.

“No. No, you ask your papa, not me.”

John flailed his hands about as if to wave away the question completely. 

“You wanted to be asked!”

“Well, I didn’t know it would be this. Can we please just go home, now?”

John sounded frustrated and tired.  
He understood why she’d be curious, but by god, he couldn’t answer things like that. Not after all he’d been through. Not even after all this time. 

They made their way home in silence. Not a word was spoken. Rosie swore she could hear the gears in her mind clunking and grinding aggressively.

As they approached the door to the flat, Rosie pondered if her father could hear her inner clockwork as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for posting this so slowly, I’ve been busy with all this summer bustling. 
> 
> I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. If you’d like to leave a comment saying what you think happens next, I’d love to see your theories. It means a lot when people who read my work get connected with me. It makes me feel appreciated.

Rosie and John were gone for quite some time. When they realized how long they had been pacing the city streets, they picked up supper for Sherlock.

While Rosie and John were gone, Sherlock had jolted out of his thoughts. He supposed that they had gone to bed at an early hour to catch up on sleep that had been missed while brainstorming during the case at hand.

He made himself a cup of tea, it didn’t taste as good as when Mrs Hudson would make tea for him, and paced the flat.

The door creaked open, the hinges squeaking slightly.

“Sherlock?” John called, “We’re home.”

Sherlock’s face contorted with confusion.

“You two left?”

“Sher- UgH, yes, we left, we went to go get lunch, remember?”

John groaned, stiffly walking over to his chair and sitting down.

He recalled how Sherlock had dragged him around the scene of the shooting for hours and hours. Evidence was scarce at the field where the concert had taken place, and since the brother’s body had already been moved, it was difficult to tell what exactly had happened.

Unfortunately for John, Sherlock is taller and can move at a much faster pace. He practically ran through the crime scene until it was too dark to even tell where they were anymore.

“Speaking of lunch, we bought you some dinner while we were out. Lost track of time.”

“Ah, yes, such a John thing to do. Lose track of time...”

John rolled his eyes and scoffed.

Sherlock loved to play around with John. His anger brought a brilliant burning passion to his heart.

Rosie handed her step father a cardboard container.

Sherlock took it and threw it aside.

“I don’t feel like eating.”

Rosie felt the rage building up as Sherlock spoke those words.

“You haven’t eaten in days! You’ve barely had any water, now eat your food!”

Rosie growled, picking the container up and shoving it at Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock blinked for a moment.

“Rosie...”

John stood up from his seat and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!”

She shrieked, jerking away from her father.

John sighed and let go.

“Rosie, it’s alright-“

Sherlock started, standing up.

“Don’t even start with me, Sherlock! You aren’t my real parent! I don’t even see you as a guardian, God, you’re more of a child than me!”

Rosie stormed into her room and slammed the door.

Tick tock, tick tock...

Sherlock felt his heart sink.

Emotions, how bland. He took a deep breath and slunk down onto the floor.

He laid in a fetal position, face to the ground, and he sobbed.

It was a rarity, seeing Sherlock so emotional, but with what was just screamed at his face, it was fair to feel.

John crouched next to him, patting his back gently.

“Hey now, it’s alright. We got through the terrible two’s, Sherlock, we can get through this.”

John reassured, trying to look at Sherlock’s face.

“Perhaps she just needs time away. She can stay at Mycroft’s for a day or two and he can talk to her for a while. I’m sure he’s lonely as ever up in that mansion of his.”

Sherlock silently agreed and John stood up with a gentle grunt. He held out a hand.

“Up we get. We have plans to make, people to call.”

John said, pulling Sherlock up and drying his tears hastily.

“And Sherlock?”

John caught him by the sleeve as he was trying to get his phone from the kitchen,

“She didn’t mean what she said. You’ve been a wonderful father for her. She wouldn’t be half as smart as she is now if you hadn’t been there for her every step of the way.”

Sherlock anxiously bit his lips and nodded his head.

“Thank you, John.”

His voice broke and quavered a little before he straightened himself up and grabbed his phone from the kitchen table.

“What’s the uh- severed arm for?”

John pointed to the arm, which sat alarmingly close to Sherlock’s supper.

“Experiment.”

“Ah.”

John smiled. Typical Sherlock.

Rosie sat in her room, deathly quiet. You’d think she’d listen to music, or take her anger out by making lovely art, or writing her feelings in a sparkly journal quite like her step father’s, but alas. She sat in complete and utter silence, holding in those angry thoughts until the ticking would finally stop.

Gears clicked, steam engines blew, the ticking continued.

She was outraged, yet expressing emotions was a gruelling task that Rosie was not willing to take on just yet.

In the kitchen, John giggled as Sherlock called Mycroft. They had been joking about how he, Sherlock’s elder brother, answered the phone.

“_Hello_?”

Sherlock mimicked a feminine and dainty voice.

“No, no, Sherlock, it’s more like _hello_, _my_ _darling_, _what_ _can_ _I_ _do_ _for_ _you_?”

John and Sherlock snickered for a few more minutes before pausing as Mycroft picked up the phone.

“Hello, this is Mycroft Holmes, how may I help you?”

John nearly lost it when he heard how close to the truth they actually were.

Sherlock gave John a sharp “hush up!”

and continued to speak to his sibling.

“Brother, we need you to look after Rosie.”

“She’s practically an adult, brother mine, she can take care of herself. I paused my film for this, Sherlock, it better be important.”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, moving his bowl of popcorn to the empty seat beside him.

“She needs someplace to stay, somewhere to cool down.”

Sherlock explained what had happened in as few words as humanly possible, as he was quite afraid of his brother figuring out that he had feelings like every other human.

“Ah, another outburst? Well, I suppose she can stay at mine. I will have a chat with her. Such a shame I don’t have a daughter as well, then she’d have a better client to do manicures with.”

“You’re talking far too much.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“As always, brother dear. Bring her over tomorrow, I’ll be ready. I will update you while she’s over.”


End file.
